I’m on the ‘I need to get fit’
fad that takes me over for a couple of months maximum every now and again… It’s
due in part for my need to keep busy, take my aggression out on something given
recent events and work on my bikini body for the new year (it’s a long shot). As our traditional/hip life/azonto dance
classes have fizzled out (yes, I was dancing) and some VSO colleagues starting
to attend the gym, I’ve opted for the gym… I need the motivation of others
going! I knew it wouldn’t be the same as
Greens in Cambridge. God forbid there
had been a pool in Bolga that I was unaware of. On first glance there is a
bizarre resemblance… until you dig a little deeper into this beast of a
gym. It’s in a two story building and
occupies the entire 1st floor and has a raw warehouse feel about
it. There is a large flat screen TV at
both ends and some running and cycling machines lined up below them, the
entirety of the remaining space in this warehouse is taken up with various
weightlifting paraphernalia. Not worlds
apart from Greens, ok there might be a few less electric machines, step up,
rowing machines and what not and a few more weight lifting machines... Clearly there are more non electric bits and
pieces in Bolga but given I’ve come to a sudden halt on the runner more than
one occasion in the 5 times I’ve visited the gym, it’s not surprising they’ve
spent the majority of their capital on the non electrical machines given the
unreliable electrical supply.
I’ve never been entirely comfortable
going to the gym… more necessity than pleasure… I kept my head down not wanting
to look at the lithe, fit bodies that surrounded me… and certainly didn’t talk
to anyone apart from the trainer setting up the programme. Not in Bolga. And it’s
definitely the atmosphere in the gym that makes this beast an entirely
different beast to the gyms you find in the UK… Everyone talks to you, size
really doesn’t matter, and neither does what you wear. There are no barriers…. Unfortunate when you
are sweating your arse off on the treadmill barely able to breathe let alone
speak and the person you greeted last time wants to have a full on conversation
with you. Apart from the odd one, possibly
two Ghanaian women the entire space is taken up with many super fit (in all
senses of the word) men… It’s a truly amazing sight. I’m gutted I’m unable to see quite as clearly
as I would like due to the inability to wear glasses as they just slide off my
face with the buckets of sweat that pour off me… but what I can see is pure
unadulterated muscle rippling around me while they push more kgs than I care to
mention in every possible position imaginable… this may be all the motivation I
need to keep this up for more than 2 months!
Castro is the not so fit, very
tall, pot bellied owner who assists us with our floor exercises. I like him; he pushes me but not too
much. His side kick, the other ‘trainer’
who I’ve nick named ‘torturer’ is a complete gym bunny; doesn’t take no for an answer,
pushes you until you break and frankly lives by the rule ‘no pain, no gain’ far
too literally for my liking. As I write
this my legs still feel so detached from my hips after last night’s ‘stretch’
that I’m surprised I can actually walk.
He ignored the fact I said I wasn’t flexible and simply decided to force
it on my body… big mistake. At one point he had suspended me in the air with
any remaining weight resting on my tits and then swapped to suspending me from
the arms. He’s strong (needs to be after
doing that) and I am sure this particular manoeuvre gives him a work out too
but I think the little man bit off more than he could chew when he started
suspending me from great heights… can’t see him trying that again. Think he should try it on White Spot as a torture
technique to get him squealing on his buddies.
I’m going again tonight… can’t
get enough of that feeling you get when you go to the gym… adrenalin pumping
etc, etc...or is it the super fit men and rippling muscles that has me hooked….
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